


The Adventure Of Charles Augustus Milverton (1886)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [39]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Dean, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:33:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10672131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The great detective returns. A certain English doctor may possibly be the very slightest bit verging on borderline emotional. Perhaps.





	The Adventure Of Charles Augustus Milverton (1886)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit/gifts).



I was no detective – and that was putting it mildly! - but in this one case I demonstrated that, in certain circumstances, I could sometimes put two and two together and attain an integer midway between 3.5 and 4.5. Though it has to be said that biology and a large slice of luck played an important part in my recognizing that my life was about to be restored to normal. Or at least Sherlock-normal.

Mr. Bacchus Holmes' inexplicable visit to Baker Street, his unseen guest, and the cryptic nature of his sister Mrs. Thompson's subsequent telegram; these all combined to raise a hope in my heart during that iron-cold start to 'Eighty-Six that just possibly, my room-mate, friend and companion might be coming back to me. It provided a much-needed boost, for not only was the winter of that year a bad one, an outbreak of winter flu disobligingly decided to not live up to its name, persisting well into the following spring. I often returned to Baker Street that season tired and well past my time, having missed dinner but still hungry. It was fortuitous, perhaps, that Mrs. Harvelle's teenage daughter Joanna was one of those to succumb to the outbreak; I naturally treated her for free, otherwise my landlady might not have been quite so understanding.

It was to the tact and diplomacy (or its complete lack thereof) of the average British teenager that events transpired the way they did. Miss Harvelle had come down with a cold one morning, and her mother not unnaturally feared a return of the still-rampant flu. I checked her daughter before leaving for work, proscribing a course of pastilles which I promised to bring home from the surgery for her. It earnt me a teenage scowl which obviously stated that she had hoped to stay home from school as a result of her illness, which as she was barely a month away from her final exams was unlikely. I was replacing some items in my medical bag when she suddenly spoke.

“I saw Mr. Holmes yesterday.”

My hopes briefly flickered, before I remembered that she had met Mr. Bacchus Holmes one time (and had been singularly unimpressed, smart girl!). I merely nodded at her news and closed my bag.

“He was talking to that creepy brother of his”, she said. “The one that leers at everyone.”

Both Mrs. Harvelle and I looked sharply at her. She seemed surprised at our sudden interest.

“You saw Sherlock – the Mr. Holmes who lives with me?” I asked, almost breathlessly.

“Yes”, she said, blissfully unaware of what her words were doing to my insides. “It was on our school trip to the National Gallery. They were stood outside, chatting. Or arguing.”

“You are sure that it was him?” her mother asked.

“Of course I am sure!” she said scornfully. “His hair was as bad as ever!”

My heart sank. So Sherlock was back in England. And he had chosen not to contact me. My day was ruined.

+~+~+

I spent the rest of the week feeling uncommonly low. My dearest friend, the man whose opinion I valued above all other (even Sammy's, if truth be told) had returned to the country, but was avoiding me. Why?

It was, ironically, an act of kindness from a friend which led me to the answer. Peter Greenwood, concerned at my depression, arranged one day for me to have two patients close to each other, both just off the Strand. He knew how much I liked the small coffee-house that was situated at the top of Whitehall, with a view of Trafalgar Square, and I was grateful for the consideration. Until I rounded the corner by old Nelson and saw none other than Mrs. Thompson, Sherlock's sister, sat there enjoying a cup of tea. I almost fell over my feet in surprise, and she spun round at my rather too noisy arrival.

Her horrible blush told me at once that she did indeed know that her brother was back, and that he was avoiding me. She hesitated for what seemed like an age, then beckoned me over. A waitress actually beat me to the table – the service in this place was fantastic! – and I ordered tea and a slice of cake. Mrs. Thompson looked hard at me.

“You know, don't you?” she said softly.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“My landlady's daughter saw him talking to Bacchus”, I explained, “just over the other side of the Square.”

She stared into her tea, as if the mysteries of the world were contained therein.

“He wanted to see you, doctor”, she said at last. “He really did. But.... on his way back, this case broke, and Bacchus demanded that he help out....”

“Demanded?” I said harshly, and possibly too loudly judging from the looks I received from nearby tables. I forced myself to calm down. “What right has that blackguard to demand things of someone like Sherlock?”

“He demanded on behalf of Mr. Gladstone”, she muttered.

I baulked at the name of our prime minister (well, until the general election took place, at least), although I still felt angry that the unpleasant Mr. Bacchus Holmes was abusing his position to impinge on my friend in that way. And to deny me his presence. Though maybe not in that order.

“It is a big case, then?” I asked.

“I am not supposed to know”, she said, “except I overheard my mother talking about it. She and Father were arguing. Things have not been the same since.....”

She stopped, and blushed. I patted her hand comfortingly.

“Since whatever it was that caused your brother to sail off to foreign parts”, I finished for her. My friend kept all his personal documents in a tatty brown envelope, and I had quickly ascertained that his passport had gone missing from it. “Do not worry; I have more than enough of family dramas at work! I am sure that half my cases are illnesses caused by or exacerbated by family!”

The waitress brought my order, and Mrs. Thompson stood up, ready to go. She seemed to hesitate before looking at me.

“You really should read this article about Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton, doctor”, she said, far too casually. “I am sure that you would find it..... quite interesting.”

With that, she left. I stared at the newspaper she had left behind, and picked it up. Sure enough, the second article on the front page had a man's silhouette, and its headline ran 'Charles Augustus Milverton: London's Most Dangerous Man?'

I read on.

+~+~+

Charles Augustus Milverton was, the writer gushed, originally an impoverished Irish landowner who some years ago had lost out heavily over the government's recent (and overdue) law changes in favour of Catholics over there. He had sued the government and, amazingly, had won; not, I might add, on the general point of law, but because the government lawyer had badly mishandled the paperwork in the case, and an irate judge had granted Mr. Milverton an obscene sum of money as a punishment. He had invested it most wisely, and now had more than enough to maintain himself as a gentleman of quality in London.

Had that been all that he had done, it would have been unremarkable enough, but it was alleged that Mr. Milverton had a talent for persuading civil servants and other government officials to hand over sensitive documents, which he then sold to whichever Foreign Power paid him the most. It was not explicitly made clear just how this persuasion worked, though there was a clear insinuation that male brothels were somehow involved. Perhaps the lack of explicitness was a blessing, I thought.

The timing, the writer said, could not have been worse, as there had been rumours for over a year of a secret weapon being developed for the British Army, the details of which any Foreign Power would pay handsomely for. Quite what this was the paper had no idea, but it considered the arrival of Mr. Milverton in the capital at this time to be 'darkly propitious'. Evidently the writer had access to a thesaurus, to make up for their lack of knowing how to say things in fewer words.

I put the paper down and sighed. Presumably my friend was in some way dealing with this menace to society, and I wondered how long it would take. And I so wished that I could have been there to record it for him.

The waitress, God bless the girl, brought me a slice of pie instead of the cake that I had absent-mindedly ordered. Perhaps I did come here a little too often....

+~+~+

I had to work that Saturday, which meant that Sunday was my sole day of rest. So I was not pleased when Mrs. Harvelle told me that I had a visitor. And when I found that the guest was Mr. Bacchus Holmes, I was even less pleased.

“What do _you_ want?” I growled. We neither of us liked each other, and I was in no mood for pleasantries.

He flung himself into Holmes' chair, which only served to annoy me even more. He watched me curiously.

“You know, do you not?” he asked laconically.

I was frankly tired of the man.

“Yes!” I snapped bitterly. “He is back. Yes. He is not here. Any other questions? Good, no. Shut the door on your way out!”

I was scarcely ever rude to people, but something about the lounge-lizard made me wish him gone. Preferably to another continent. Or Hades.

“My brother sent me with a message”, he said, still watching me.

I hesitated.

“Sherlock?” I asked.

“Yes”, he said. “He says to tell you that he is busy on a case. Once it has been brought to a successful conclusion, he will endeavour to see you.”

I felt my hackles rising.

“'Endeavour', will he?” I almost sneered. “Well, thanks a lot!”

“National security does somewhat take priority over the emotional fripperies of some minor city doctor”, my visitor snapped. 

“I just want to know if he is all right”, I snapped back. “He is a friend. I care about him.”

The lounge-lizard looked at me uncertainly. 

“Caring, sir!” I almost sneered. “Something the average playboy would know little about!”

“I have a job to do”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes said, a little defensively I thought. “As do you, doctor. Home and such like must always come second.”

“Must it?” I said testily. He rose to his feet.

“I am obviously intruding on your time”, he said haughtily. “As I said, Sher.... your 'friend' will make contact once his current case is over. You are going to the McConnaughey dinner this evening?”

I blinked at the sudden change of subject. The McConnaugheys were not only the surgery's most important (i.e. richest) patients but also the main reason for its existence. Their funding was very generous, and all they asked in return was the attendance of at least one of the doctors at each of their major social functions. It had been Peter's turn to attend tonight, but after his help in recent days – he had lightened my load and spared me one of our most obnoxious patients, as well as the coffee-house favour - I had agreed to stand in for him, resigned to spending several hours in an ill-fitting suit talking with the sort of people I would normally have crossed the street to avoid. Still, it was a relatively small price to pay for a steady job and the improved healthcare of Londoners.

“I am”, I said, not even bothering to wonder as to how he knew. “What of it?”

He looked at me oddly, and I thought that, for once, he looked almost uncertain.

“Take care, doctor”, he said, before leaving swiftly.

I stared after him in confusion.

+~+~+

Leinster House was as bad as I had remembered it from my last ordeal there, and even worse, the truly awful Lady Wicklow, Mrs. McConnaughey's sister, ambushed me before I could get my first drink. I bit back a petulant sigh. It was just not my day.

“You are a dark horse, doctor!” she teased, waving over a waiter who, fortunately, had glasses of beer (though disappointingly small ones) on his tray. I grabbed two, not caring if I seemed greedy. By the way my interlocutor was swaying slightly, she had clearly been imbibing herself.

“What do you mean?” I asked, downing the first glass in one go. She sipped her own drink and hiccoughed before answering.

“All London is _desperate_ to have the infamous Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton at their soirées”, she said. “And when Lily cornered him at Lord Nairn's dinner the other day, he initially refused. That was, until she said that a certain famous writer of detective stories would also be attending.”

I looked at her in confusion. Then again, perhaps the man was one of those who had liked the stories in the “Strand”. I supposed that even criminals could have good taste.

“Well, Lily said that once she told him that _you_ were coming, doctor, he promised to see if he could make shift to attend”, she said. “Oh look, that's him over there, talking to that ghastly German!”

She gestured to two gentlemen standing by the fireplace. I stared at them for a moment.

“Mr. Milverton is the shorter of the two?” I asked. “We have never met, you see.”

“Shorter but definitely more handsome”, she said, simpering at the 'special guest'. I sighed. Some married women had no shame.

She was simpering at him. Curious.....

I looked again at the two men before me. Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton was of slightly above average height, somewhat portly and with a bushy beard. His heavily tanned skin suggested that he had spent some time in foreign climes. He wore dark glasses that gave him a somewhat sinister appearance, and his hair was short and heavily gelled. His interlocutor was a tall anaemic-looking blond man who, if he had been any slimmer, might have disappeared if he had turned sideways. He had a monocle, and was clearly fond of the sound of his own voice, judging from the fact that he did most of the talking. He also seemed to be standing far too close to Mr. Milverton.

“Who is the German, then?” I asked. Lady Wicklow knew most things, if only because she was a nosy old bat.

“Helmut something-or-other”, she said dismissively. “Utterly unpronounceable. He is the nephew or great-nephew of the German ambassador, and something of a playboy. I do wish that he would not stand so close to poor Mr. Milverton; has he not heard of the concept of personal space?”

I stared again. The two men were some yards away across the room, but I was sure that I could make out....

Annoyingly, a waitress chose that moment to move across my line of sight and offer both men a drink. Mr. Milverton said something to her which made her laugh, and Helmut something-or-other frowned for some reason. 

I excused myself from Lady Wicklow, and moved across to the window, ostensibly to examine a tall and rather ugly black lamp. Unfortunately, before I could approach the two men, they had parted, moving in different directions. 

+~+~+

I had to use the facilities soon after – whatever was in the beer, it was most definitely disinclined to linger in the human body for any length of time – and they lay down a corridor where one of the lights was not working. Therefore it was somewhat dark when I returned to the main hall, and on coming through the door, I found myself directly behind Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton. He caught me looking at him, nodded and moved away. I would have followed him, but I immediately found myself face to face with Mr. Bacchus Holmes for the second time that day. 

We were in public, I reminded myself, so I had to be civil. No matter how much it hurt. Besides, I could always get out the voodoo doll of him when I got home, and stick a few more pins into it.

He apparently did not feel any need for social niceties, for I found myself steered outside onto the balcony and pushed behind a large and rather ugly stone vase.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” he hissed.

“Attending a party”, I said primly. “And trying to avoid getting accosted by passing lounge-lizards. Let me go!”

He gave me a look which said quite clearly 'God give me strength!', before nudging me further out of everyone's sight. I told myself that a fall from the first floor would probably only break a leg at worst. And there was always the prospect that I could drag him over with me. Maybe even use him to break my fall.

“What do you want now?” I growled. “Cannot I even attend a party without being watched by the Holmeses? First you spy on me at home, and now when I am out!”

“What did you see in there?” he demanded.

“Nothing of import”, I said with a knowing smile. I knew that it would annoy him. 

“For Heaven's sake, doctor!" he snapped. “There is national security at stake here. Do not try to play games with me!”

“Yes, and everyone is expendable”, I growled. “Even little brothers, eh?”

“You are drunk, doctor”, he almost sneered.

I waved my drink at him.

“My fourth”, I said, thinking that even six of those 'micro-beers' would not constitute a full pint. “I am representing the surgery, you idiot, and....”

Whatever I had been about to say was lost when someone came around the giant vase. It was Mr. Milverton. He looked at us in quiet confusion, but said nothing, which did not surprise me in the least. Mr. Bacchus Holmes glared at me, then hurried over and hustled him away.

+~+~+

I was strongly tempted to spend the rest of the evening getting bladdered just to spite Mr. Bacchus Holmes, but as I had told him, I was the face of the surgery here, and other people's livelihoods depended on my 'playing nice', so to speak. I did however manage to catch several glimpses of my quarry during the evening, and by nine o'clock I considered I had done enough 'glad-handing' to earn my crust. I therefore approached Mrs. McConnaughey to thank her for a wonderful evening (it was not a lie, just a somewhat elastic version of the truth), and that I had to get home as I was in the surgery the following morning (that was also stretching the truth, as my first patient was not until eleven o'clock). I decided to walk back to the house rather than take a cab, letting the cool night air refresh me.

Dear old 221B Baker Street looked much the same as when I had left it earlier that evening, and there was no-one about as I stumbled up to my rooms, not even turning on the main room light before going to my bedroom and changing into my dressing-gown. I decided a small night-cap and a chapter from my latest novella would be beneficial before turning in, so I returned to the main room and turned on the standing lamp. 

He was sat in his fireside chair, wearing that familiar worn blue dressing-gown and slippers. Large as life, his hair as untidy as ever. Mr. Sherlock Castiel Holmes.

+~+~+

I stared at my friend in shocked silence, my face almost certainly doing accurate impressions of a fish out of water. He looked at me warily, clearly uncertain about his welcome.

“You are back!” I exclaimed, and lumbered across to pull him to his feet and into a hug. It might have been terribly unmanly, but there was no-one around to see, and I had waited three years to see the scruffy little rapscallion.

“Watson”, he whispered. “Hullo.”

I pulled back, gripping his arms probably a little too tightly.

“Hullo?” I said, my anger swiftly returning. “You disappear for three years without so much as a by-your-leave, then turn up here and just say 'hullo'? And that is meant to make everything all right?”

I was almost shouting by the time I reached the end of my little rant, and he gently prised himself out of my grip and sat me down. There were two hot chocolates on the table by his chair, and watching him ease himself into 'his place' was warming me in a way the small fire that had been laid was not. He sipped his drink, and looked at me tentatively.

“The case is over”, he said quietly. “Bacchus knows who the spy is, and they will have the papers delivered to them by the end of the week.”

“That Helmut fellow, I suppose”, I said.

He smiled, and shook his head.

“You were at the party”, he observed. “I saw you there.”

I smiled inwardly. For once, I might actually get the better of my friend.

“I know”, I said smugly. He looked at me in surprise.

“How?” he asked. I sipped my own chocolate.

“Because, _Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton_ , I know you.”

There was silence between us.

“And Bacchus said that you do not notice things!” my friend chuckled. “What gave me away?”

“Your scent, for one thing”, I said. “You are still buying that awful cheap stuff from Lord alone knows where; it smells like that camomile tea that I cannot stand. Plus you hate wearing starched shirt-collars, and you have that habit of running your finger around them when you are bored.”

“Lots of people do that”, he countered.

“True”, I admitted, “but it reminded me of you, and I kept a watch on you after that. When you did it a second time, I was not far away. I could see the tiny birthmark that you always avoid when you shave.”

“Very good, doctor”, he praised. “Anything else?”

“You were offered a plate of _hors d'oeuvres_ , and you took the time to pick out one without any cheese. You rearranged the fire-irons because they were very slightly out of place, and that sort of thing annoys you. And you sneezed when talking to Lady Wilmcote, because she had apparently taken a bath in lilac water, to which you are allergic.”

He looked impressed. I may or may not have preened very slightly (a lot).

“So if Mr. Helmut is not the spy, who is?” I asked.

“Herr Braunschweig-Udendorf is a playboy after Bacchus' mould, but he is no spy”, he said. “The maid who brought us drinks at the fireside, however, is Fraulein Helga Wittenheim, one of Imperial Germany's top agents in London. We talked briefly later, and she agreed to purchase the plans for the government's new secret weapon.”

“Which, I suppose, does not exist”, I guessed.

“It exists on paper”, he said, “but it cannot work. It is, or might be, a gliding bomb, capable of being fired like conventional artillery, but then travelling much further than normal. The physical damage caused would be minimal, but the effect on an enemy's morale would be devastating. However, basic aeronautics mean that it will never fly.”

“Did you know about the maid beforehand?” I asked.

“Bacchus had strong suspicions, but nothing tangible. She had never risked endangering herself in this way before.”

“And Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton?”

“The newspapers will shortly report that he was found dead in mysterious circumstances, the day after meeting a shady lady on Westminster Bridge.”

I smiled. I was so happy to have him back again.

“I really am sorry”, he said. “I so wanted to write to you, but the business I had to take care of was both sudden and urgent. I did not think that it would keep me away for three whole years.”

I paused before asking my next question.

“Is it likely to take you away again?”

He hesitated.

“Very unlikely”, he admitted. “I really wish.....”

I leant across and took his long hands in mine. Heavens to Betsy, we were going to have a Moment. Thank the Lord that no-one could see us.

“I am just glad that you are back”, I said, possibly a little too quickly.

He smiled at me, tentatively at first but then more warmly. 

“Am I forgiven?” he asked, sounding almost unsure.

Of course he was. I could deny him nothing. He was, after all, my friend, and I.... I valued him dearly.

+~+~+

In our first case back together, Macbeth is involved in both theft and murder.


End file.
